


die as lovers may

by wordsmithie



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26208061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsmithie/pseuds/wordsmithie
Summary: Bonnie returns home following the death of her grandmother. As the last surviving Bennett witch, Bonnie feels more alone than ever before. Her melancholy is disrupted when a mysterious stranger stumbles into her life. But is he really a stranger? And why does he hold such sway over Bonnie? Victorian AU. Inspired by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's "Carmilla."
Relationships: Bonnie Bennett/Klaus Mikaelson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

_But to die as lovers may – to die together, so that they may live together.”_

_\- Carmilla_ , Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

* * *

The Bennett witches have always lived in the castle, now old, almost forgotten, a silent sentry standing at the edge of the forest that caught one by surprise after the bend in the road.

At least, it always caught Bonnie by surprise. She remembers the daily evening walks with Grams as they wound their way through the forest on their well-trodden paths, picking apart everything from literature to the spell best cast on a moonlit night.

And it is on a moonlit night that she has returned, the waxing glint smiling down at her, the prodigal daughter, heart sore, and soul weary. She grips the portmanteau tighter, taking the cold air into her lungs with a trembling breath.

Grams had been understanding. A young witch ought to see the world, she had said. She ought to learn its ways.

And so Bonnie had gone out into the world, learnt everything that had come her way, lost herself in cities and scrolls. She had been buried in the origins of spells and the future of magic when the letter came from Madame Pearce.

And now standing in front of her childhood home that is empty of her Grams, Bonnie feels her heart twist with renewed anguish. A part of her wishes to turn and run into the forest, disappear into the the darkness forever, erase this feeling that she is at the edge of madness with none by her side.

But that choice is not for her. Bennett castle looms before her, awaiting its next mistress, and Bonnie cannot abandon it once more. So she begins the climb up to the beckoning gates.

Above her, the moon continues to shine down over the trees, and the air is split by a howl, vicious and full of agony, tearing at Bonnie’s heart. Somewhere in the dark forest a creature knows her pain.

* * *

There is only her and Madame Pearce. And the priest, of course. The Bennett family had once been respected, revered. But that had been so long ago, that it had been a distant tale told to her when she was still in her nursery. Their fall had been sudden. Trying to protect a people that did not believe in danger was futile.

When none believe you and there is no proof, it is easy to become the fool, Grams had always said.

Bonnie’s heart is numb. The sky weeps in her stead, in a gentle, apologetic drizzle that dampens her veil. Madame Pearce muffles her sobs in her handkerchief as the priest drones in Latin.

Afterwards, when the priest has closed his book with a nod and walked off, with a stumbling Madame Pearce clutching his arm, Bonnie continues to stand at the foot of the mound, eyes boring into the freshly turned soil. She watches it turn darker in little patches, growing in size. A worm wriggles through, turning in the dirt. It is aflame with the blink of an eye, before singeing away. Bonnie runs her thumb over her fingers.

The headstone will be delivered tomorrow. Sheila Bennett. Beloved Wife, Mother, and Grandmother. 1802-1876. The inscription has been running through her head all day. It is inadequate. It is all inadequate.

Her mind settles upon the roses at the edge of the garden, Grams’ favourite. She beckons them over and they unravel in petals, buoyed over to her by the wind, swirling over her grandmother’s resting place in a long, slow, rain-soaked dance, like so many droplets of blood against the grey sky. And for the first time that day, Bonnie feels her lips lift in a small smile.

* * *

It is the pity that Bonnie cannot stand. Madame Pearce’s woebegone eyes seem to follow her everywhere with such insistence that Bonnie wishes her a thousand miles away from the castle. She berates herself. After all, it must break the older woman’s heart, too. It must hurt to be the only one accompanying Bonnie to the dining table, the drawing room, the well-trodden paths around the forest. Grams had been the head of house for so long that her absence stretches through their life like a raw, gaping wound.

And yet, at times Bonnie can almost feel her there. Sitting at the piano, her fingers running through the well-rehearsed pieces, she can feel a faint touch at her shoulders, a whisper soft brushing against her back, the air kissed with a wisp of jasmine that Grams favoured so. But when her fingers stop and she gets up, turning to face the room with salt stained cheeks and checked breath, Bonnie is not surprised to find that the room is empty, the only movements the fluttering of the curtains, and the rustling of the manuscript. Her staccato pulse resumes again, almost against her will, insisting, insisting, that she is of this world still.

* * *

After weeks, she finds herself in the West Wing, in her old nursery. She has not been avoiding it consciously, she tells herself. The responsibilities of the day have not yet taken her there. It is incredible to her how little time it has taken to tidy away the unresolved remnants of Grams’ life. But now, the days stretch before her, endless, empty, demanding to be filled. Preoccupation is the one desire.

Perhaps she will reorder the castle, she thinks. Perhaps bring in new furniture, remove some of the older pieces. She might even start with this room, she thinks.

Her fingers brush over the bookcase, the foot of the bed. It is all exactly as she remembers it. It is almost too perfect to change. She touches the coverlet, light and cool under her hands, so different to that day, the memory of it simmering beneath her skin.

_It had felt hot and oppressive against her skin. She had tossed and turned in her sleep, and eventually she had given up on sleep altogether, pushing away the heavy blankets, and sitting up so that the moonlight washed over her face._

_She had almost screamed when she saw him standing there in the shadows._

_He had moved forward into the light, holding a finger to his smiling lips. His hair curled around his face in waves. His smile made her feel that he was sharing a secret with her. His face was like the statues of angels she saw in church, striking, mesmerising, a little frightening. He was the most beautiful boy Bonnie had ever seen. She had smiled back at him without meaning to._

“ _Hello.” His voice was soft, softer than she expected. His eyes glinted in the moonlight._

“ _Hello,” she replied. “Who are you?”_

“ _Don’t you know me?” he asked, still smiling._

_Bonnie shook her head. She had never met him before. And yet she felt they had been friends all her life._

_He tilted his head. “Are you sure?” He still hadn’t moved._

“ _I - I feel as if I know you.”_

“ _Yes,” he said. And his eyes seemed to flash in the moonlight._

_And then he had disappeared, and so did the moonlight, and Bonnie had felt her heart stop. There had been something heavy and hot against her, breathing, like an animal, before something pierced her throat, and there was pain, so sharp and blinding that Bonnie had felt like she would never breathe again. But she must have been able to, because the next moment she had open her mouth and screamed as loudly as she could._

Bonnie touches her hand to the base of her throat. She looks around the nursery, feeling slightly foolish, slightly hopeful. But it is as bright and empty as it was when she entered it.

* * *

“We have such few clear days that it is a blessing to be outside today, despite it being overcast.”

Bonnie nods, only half hearing Madame Pearce’s words.

She can feel the forest rustling with life around her. It seems restless today, as if there is something at the heart of it that has disturbed its usual repose. Critters dart in and out between the foliage, and occasionally, the sudden, startling flap of feathers sounds overhead. The ground is soft underfoot from days of rain, and it sends up smells of fresh earth and tree root. It is days like this when Bonnie wants to drop to her knees, dig her nails into the dirt, and pull up the magic from the earth. It might be one way to bring back something of Grams’ presence.

But Madame Pearce is next to her, and Bonnie clasps her hands together, following the curving path between the trees.

A clattering up ahead makes Bonnie’s heart stop. The noise splits through the forest, breaking through whatever tranquility there had been.

Bonnie just manages to dart into the trees, pulling Madame Pearce with her, when a carriage swerves around the corner, rattling at breakneck speed. It is jostling in an alarming manner that the only cause could be a broken wheel. In the next moment, it topples, the back wheel breaking off and sliding down the incline, while horse, rider, and carriage collapse in a heap.

The next moment all is quiet again. It is as if there is a spell on the forest, and for a second Bonnie has to rub her hands together to check that no magic has escaped.

Bonnie feels her feet frozen to the ground, and she is reluctant to move closer, if only because the pull she feels from the carriage is overwhelmingly strong. Something urges her, wants her to come closer, investigate. Her fingertips crackle, and she clenches her hands into fists.

She moves to step forward, but Madame Pearce’s hand clutches her arm.

“Be careful, dear. You never can be certain of what’s safe in this forest.”

Bonnie does not want to admit that there is fear in her heart. It is not a familiar feeling. A witch ought to always know that the most fearsome thing in a forest is her. Grams words come unbidden to her mind, and despite the situation, Bonnie almost smiles.

She pats Madame Pearce’s hand before pulling away. As she moves closer she sees the horse struggling, the harness pulling at its throat, its eyes almost white. Bonnie loosens the harness with a flick of her wrist and the horse relaxes momentarily.

The rider is a few yards away, lying with his neck at a sharp angle that Bonnie knows death was instantaneous. She pauses, staring, because the man’s pallor seems to suggest that he has been under the touch of death for far longer than the few seconds he has lain there. His skin is a mottled grey, his face sunken. His eyes, which are open, stare at her in frozen horror. The face is emaciated, as if he has been wasting away for months.

Again, she feels the contradictory forces playing on her, urging her forward, and keeping her back.

There is a groan from within the carriage and Bonnie turns staring at it. It is on its side, one of the remaining wheels broken in half. Bonnie moves back, eyes on the carriage, her hands in front of her. The carriage lifts, righting itself, but with only three wheels Bonnie has to concentrate to keep it upright. Her hand is still aloft as she moves forward, the door swinging open for her to peer inside.

The figure inside is crumpled on the seat, covered by a velvet cloak, but Bonnie can see that whoever it is still breathing, still alive. She feels her own heart beat pulse in response. She spreads her magic around them, holds them up, coaxes them slowly out of the carriage door before they stumble into her arms.

The man - for it is a man - is heavier than she expected, and she stumbles, before lowering to her knees, careful not to jostle him. The cloak tips back and Bonnie’s breath catches in her throat. It is him, she is sure of it. The boy from the nursery, all those years ago.

His face is harsher now, and the angular panes of his face are dotted with stubble. His lush lips are open as he takes in short, shallow breaths. Bonnie places a hand on his chest and feels for his heartbeat. It is so faint that she almost wonders it is there at all.

She brushes his forehead, startled at how cool it is. She had dispensed with her gloves before the walk, certain that they would not run into anybody, and now she is almost glad of it because her fingers burn with him in her hands, burn much hotter than when magic is bubbling in them. She does not dwell long on the curiosity of this because he stirs in her arms. His eyes flutter, and the half-dazed look in them disappears as his gaze settles on her. They are a bleak grey, like the sky before the rain, like a lake before a storm, like a wolf’s before it feeds. She cannot move.

His hand reaches up, his fingers brushing her cheek.

“At last,” he rasps. “I’ve found you.”


	2. Chapter 2

“ _...life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either.”_

 _\- Carmilla_ , Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

* * *

They are a strange procession as they make their way up to the castle. Madame Pearce leads the way, with the prostrate body of the stranger floating behind her, while Bonnie follows, hands raised. Bringing up the rear is the horse, pulling at the now repaired carriage trundling loudly over the gravel.

Madame Pearce had been reluctant to bring their new visitor home, but the apothecary’s house is more than two miles away, and even she cannot deny the encroaching darkness of twilight. The villagers are often reluctant to travel after sunset.

Bonnie’s eyes are on the top of the man’s head, on his curls freed from the hood of his cloak which swings from his neck.

When he had touched her face earlier as she crouched on the road she had wanted to close her eyes, turn her face into his hand.

“Why have you been looking for me?” she had murmured.

His only response had been a slow, secret smile, as if the answer was too obvious to bear repeating, before his eyes became lidded once more, and his head slumped onto her shoulder.

Now she watches his curls shift slightly in the evening breeze, the setting rays glancing off them in a shimmering halo. She longs to run her fingers through them and is only too glad for Madame Pearce’s presence.

When they finally reach the gates, Robert, the groundskeeper drops his gardening shears and runs towards them, hat in hand.

“Everythin’ all right, ma’am?” His curious glance flickers over the floating body.

“There was a carriage accident, Robert, and Miss Bennett thought it prudent that we care for the traveller within the castle.” Madame Pearce’s voice is matter of fact but there is no mistaking her disapproval of Bonnie’s decision.

It is of no consequence. The only other option would have been to leave carriage and traveller on the road, and even Madame Pearce is not so indifferent to the stranger’s fortune.

They leave Robert to tend to the horse and carriage and Bonnie ushers the floating body into the castle. She casts her mind to the guest bedroom, but they no longer expect visitors and it has been shut up for the better part of a year. There is, of course, Grams’ room, but Bonnie’s mind immediately shies away from the thought.

Her own room, of course, is out of the question. Bonnie would not have cared one way or the other, living as she has done on the outskirts of society, but Madame Pearce is a stickler for the rules of propriety and Bonnie has no desire to further increase her ire.

Bonnie lowers the visitor onto the chaise lounge in the drawing room. He lies there, his features so serene that it seems incredible to think that he had been involved in a deadly carriage accident only a half hour before. There is only his faint pallor and shortness of breath to indicate that something is amiss.

But that is nothing that cannot be remedied soon enough. Bonnie rings the bell, tells Leah to heat up some soup. With a flick of her hand, she has cushions piled around the man, and blankets covering his outstretched limbs. She clicks her fingers, and the fireplace is alive with flames, almost startled into performing its duty. She and Mrs. Pearce almost never use this room, the small sitting room at the back being more than enough for the two of them.

The man stirs, and Bonnie notes that his boots are still on. Instead of removing them with a click of her fingers, she finds herself moving to the foot of the chaise, her fingers working at the boot ties. Her movements are slow, ponderous. She slides off one boot, and goes to remove the other when she feels his gaze on her.

Flames flicker in his eyes, and the same, secret smile from earlier dances on his lips. “I know I could not have gone to heaven. And yet here you are.”

Leah enters the room, breaking the spell, holding a bowl of steaming soup on a tray.

Bonnie drops the other boot and moves to take the tray. She dismissed Leah with a nod, before turning to him once more. He watches her as she sets the tray down, before picking up the bowl and spoon and moving to sit on the edge of the chaise.

The smile returns with a vengeance, and though he is indisposed, pale, and panting for breath, it has the devastating charm of a debonair rake’s.

Bonnie feels the foolish need to tuck her hair behind her ears. She is thankful for the bowl of soup in her hands, the practical reason for her proximity to the stranger.

Don’t be a fool for a man. It is as if Grams is there in the room. They easily make fools of us without our aiding them.

“What must have I done in my past life to deserve such an administering angel?” he muses quietly, tugging at his gloves. Though his words are careless, light, his eyes appraise her with an urgency. The look is so bold and intimate that Bonnie drops her eyes. She concentrates on spooning some soup, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck.

“I fear you are delirious, sir. You are in need of sustenance.” She raises the spoon to his lips.

He watches her, wordless for a minute, before parting his lips. He grimaces slightly, as if he had not expected the warmth of the soup, but concedes to a few more spoonfuls, before his hand lifts to stay her arm.

“Thank you. That will do.”

She observes him for a second. There is some colour in his cheeks, but it is a very small improvement.

“I fear my stomach cannot keep much down,” he says, his smile self-deprecating.

“Very well.”

Bonnie sets the soup down on the table.

“Will you have some whiskey then? You are still quite pale.”

“If you insist, my lady.” His eyes appear soft, though she cannot tell if it is from the effect of the firelight playing across his face.

She busies herself at the sideboard, pouring out a sliver of the liquid and bringing him the glass.

He had been reclining against the cushions, but proceeds to sit up once more, his movements slow, languid. His fingers are cold against hers.

She watches him raise the glass to his lips, his throat working as he swallows. A second passes before she realizes that he is watching her, watching her staring and Bonnie turns away. She tends to the fire, pretends it needs her attention, and lets its warmth hide her flushed cheeks.

She turns back to see him finish the last of the whiskey and lie back against the cushions with a wearied sigh, holding the empty glass against his torso. His fingers are slack, as if it is tasking him too much to keep hold of the glass.

She plucks it out his fingers.

“I will send for the apothecary tomorrow morning. I would have called on him this evening, but I am afraid no one dares to venture out after sunset around these parts.”

The man sighs. “I doubt there is anything the apothecary could tell me that my physician already hasn’t.” His words are softened by the small smile that he directs at her.

“Are you quite certain, sir? I believe you would benefit from a visit.”

“I am more than certain,” he huffs with laughter. “I have lived with this condition all my life.”

Bonnie falls silent. She cannot insist on bringing the apothecary if he does not wish it, and yet she feels that it would be wise to do so. The carriage accident must surely have taxed him. She wants to inquire after his condition but dares not intrude. It irks her, the fact that she keeps second-guessing herself around this stranger.

“I must thank you for rescuing me.”

His words break through her reverie, and she blinks at him. He lies there looking up at her with glittering eyes.

“You said you were looking for me,” she says.

A pause. “Did I?”

She nods silently.

His cold hand rises to take hers, his fingers caressing the inside of her palm. The touch sends something slithering down her spine and she shivers. The tips of his fingers brush against her palm lines, his hand massages her, clasps her wrist, tugs her down, and she is next to him once more, his eyes pulling her forward, his curls shining under the firelight, begging her to run her fingers through them.

The door opens and Bonnie pulls back.

Madame Pearce bustles into the room. “Well, my dear, the guest room is ready and waiting. I’ve not started a fire there yet, as the rooms seems to be quite warm. As it is, I thought I had better check with you, and - oh!-” She pauses, staring at the man. “I did not expect you to be up, sir.”

The man nods at Madame Pearce, a gesture that strikes Bonnie as regal.

“It is all thanks to the careful attentions of my nurse here.” His glance brushes over Bonnie again, who rises to her feet, putting some distance between herself and the chaise.

“Thank you, Madame Pearce.” Bonnie clears her throat. “I believe it would be best to have the fire going, after all.”

“Very well, my dear. I shall get it ready. Don’t tarry too long.” With a cautioning glance, the woman leaves.

“I think I had better show you to your room, sir,” Bonnie says, turning with reluctance to face the man.

He shifts, lowering his legs onto the floor, gripping the side of the chaise as he gets up. His movements are jerky, faltering, but for some reason Bonnie cannot move closer to help him.

He straightens, his breathing slightly laboured.

“Please, call me Klaus.” A corner of his mouth lifts in that overly familiar smile.

Bonnie can feel her spine stiffen. “You may call me Miss Bennett.”

His chuckle is like velvet against her skin. Her neck prickles some more, whether in indignation or satisfaction she cannot tell.

He moves forward, then stops, grasping the back of a nearby chair. Again, Bonnie feels the conflicting forces, urging her towards him, holding her back. She remembers the old cane in the coatroom. That will do for now. That will allow her to continue pretending that it isn’t fear that keeps her away from him. Fear of him...and of herself.

The cane sails through the door, coming to bob by his right hand. Surprise registers on his face, and he pauses for a second before curling his fingers around the handle.

His eyes find hers. “A witch?”

Bonnie says nothing, stands ramrod straight. That fact is no longer a welcome piece of news around these parts.

“Well, that explains it,” he says with a tilt of his head.

She cannot help her curiosity. Her brow furrows.

“You must have cast a spell over me.”

“I would never do anything of the sort, sir,” Bonnie bites out.

His laughter is unrestrained but gravelly, as if he does not find much reason to laugh. “My lady, I am only too happy to be bewitched.”

Bonnie knows she should be disapproving, but the glare she summons is half-hearted. She turns on her heels, leading him upstairs. Their progress is slow. His breathing already strained, only becomes more laboured as they make their way up. When they finally reach the door of the guest bedroom he leans against the wall, head falling back to rest on the crumbling stone.

She frowns up at him.

“Are you certain you don’t want me to call for the apothecary?”

He looks at her through lidded eyes, a faint smile touching his lips. “I am certain. Your care is more than enough.”

Bonnie can only stare.

He chuckles, pushing himself off the wall. “You look quite puzzled.” His fingers find hers, gasp them in a cool grip. His eyes hold hers as he lifts her hand to brush his lips against her knuckles. His touch is feather light and yet she finds she cannot move.

“Goodnight, Bonnie.”

It is only after he has disappeared through the doorway and she has made her way downstairs, heartbeat erratic and mind half dazed, that she realizes she never told him her name.

**Author's Note:**

> hey folks, FYI i'm copying this over from fanfiction.net where i've posted more chapters. i'm (s l o w l y) transferring my ffnet stories here.


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